


Sentinel

by AllegoriesInMediasRes



Series: ASoIaF / Game of Thrones fics [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Oneshot, References to Canon-Typical Violence, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:14:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23981422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/pseuds/AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: They sit up with her that night, one on each side of the cocoon of blankets she makes for herself. Shae strokes her fingers through her hair, the strands that are finally silky smooth, and does not stop, even when Sansa falls asleep with her face turned against Shae’s knee.Twice Sansa shares a bed during her marriage in King's Landing.
Relationships: Shae & Sansa Stark, Tyrion Lannister & Sansa Stark
Series: ASoIaF / Game of Thrones fics [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586470
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Sentinel

A sennight into their marriage, Sansa has stopped flinching from her lord husband every time he moves. He makes no demands upon her, and after the first night, he keeps separate chambers from hers. They rarely exchange words.

It is better than she could have hoped for, she knows, but she still shrivels every time she is addressed as _Lady Lannister_.

Three sennights into their marriage, Joffrey corners her as she is taking a stroll in the gardens. Courtiers are milling about and he does not attempt anything towards his uncle’s wife in public, but in a low tone, he reminds her of the conversation they had at her wedding. He smirks at her before he departs. She is standing stricken and still beside a curtain of wisteria when Tyrion catches up with her, waddling and wheezing.

She does not breathe a word of her shame, but he saw his royal nephew whispering something to her and sauntering away, he looks up to see her face snapping into her mask of courtesy and glances down to her shaking sweaty palms fisting in her gown. Tyrion Lannister has been a runt among lions all his life. He observes enough to perceive, and he gently guides her away by the elbow, back to the imprisoning safety of the Red Keep.

He keeps someone posted outside her door for the rest of the day, either his pet sellsword or one of the wildlings loyal to him, and when the sky is streaked with ink, he retires to her chambers rather than his. Nocturnal solitude was one of her few luxuries, but she knows that the King retains a healthy fear of his uncle, dwarf though he is, and she stolidly tolerates her husband keeping sentinel in her room.

At first, he curls up on the little chaise where he had slept on their wedding night that wasn’t, while Sansa lies in the bed with her back to him and the duvet drawn over her head. She does not see, but she hears the creaks and shifts of trying to find a comfortable position in a sleeping space too small even for the Imp.

She judges that three sweeps of the clock have elapsed before she sits up and draws back the cover. “Sore necks will do neither of us any good, my lord.”

He accepts the proffer with great hesitancy, but he accepts it. The bed is large enough for three, let alone a girl-child and a half-man, and slumber finds them both easily enough afterwards.

* * *

Her eyes are perpetually blotchy, her hair’s an oily snarled thing upon her head, and her temples throb. She hasn’t bathed or left her bed in days. Grief has spiked her senses in a way it never has before, not even when her father was executed. Even then, she had whisper-thin tendrils of hope to wrap around her heart like withering vines of ivy. But now, despair accompanies grief, and despair is the death of all hope.

Did Robb feel it, when Grey Wind was killed, if his wolf was killed before him? Did he feel that same _snip_ that she felt when Lady’s throat was slit? Was her mother truly made to watch Robb die, before her own throat was cut?

She hears the rumble of Tyrion’s voice from somewhere in the doorway of her room, his words indistinct, meaningless. There’s a pulse of silence, then the clatter of footsteps and the sharp lilts of Shae’s tone. 

Shae becomes the mistress, and Sansa her handmaiden, following her orders in subdued silence. Hot water sluices the grime from her skin, and cold water rinses the red from her eyes. Tyrion had the lemon cakes saved from the uneaten garden luncheon, and when Sansa bites into one, she actually tastes it. 

They sit up with her that night, one on each side of the cocoon of blankets she makes for herself. Shae strokes her fingers through her hair, the strands that are finally silky smooth, and does not stop, even when Sansa falls asleep with her face turned against Shae’s knee. 


End file.
